When they reached the Hall of Kings they heard King Otho's
voice--suave, mellow, of perfect enunciation:
"--some one," the king was concluding, "who can tell this
considerably better than I. And it seems to me singularly fitting
that the recognition of the part eternally played by the 'possible'
be temporarily deferred while we listen to--I dislike to use the
word, but shall I say--the facts."
It seemed to St. George when he stood beside the dais, facing that
strange, eager multitude with his strange unbelievable story upon
his lips--the story of the finding of the king--as if his own voice
were suddenly a part of all the gigantic incredibility. Yet the
divinely real and the fantastic had been of late so fused in his
consciousness that he had come to look upon both as the
normal--which is perhaps the only sane view. But how could he tell
to others the monstrous story of last night, and hope to be
believed?
None the less, as simply as if he had been narrating to
Chillingworth the high moment of a political convention, St.
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